Pregnant again, spotting again

We have talked at length about whether we should even attempt to conceive naturally after only one of our six pregnancies has ended with a healthy, live baby and only two out of 13 of our fertilised IVF embryos were found to have the correct number of chromosomes.

Following the failure of our latest IVF round, we thought “fuck it”. We didn’t have any normal embryos left, only three that were “inconclusive”. It was as good as trying naturally.

So today I discovered that I am pregnant, again. And I am already spotting, again. Naturally, I feel a mixture of positivity and negativity but, let’s be honest, largely negativity. Every miscarriage I have had has started with light spotting from an early date. With my son, nothing. I’m convinced my boobs already hurt less than they did yesterday. I expect that this might be another chemical pregnancy.

I have cried a bit today with disappointment, but I am certainly becoming more accepting of the idea that we may well not have a second child. And it won’t be for lack of trying!

Advertisements

Post-miscarriage rock bottom

I starting writing these posts as a way of trying to process my thoughts and get through the worst of times with minimum damage. As I sit here now, three years after we started trying to get pregnant a second time, I wonder if it’s working or not. You see, this week I hit rock bottom (again).

It’s a familiar place for me, having terminated a pregnancy at 16 weeks for medical reasons, having lost five other babies including failed IVF (most recently and inexplicably to a virus), and having multiple surgeries including for Asherman’s Syndrome. All this has been in the last three years.

Rock bottom happened to me four nights ago. I was feeling better. The cloud of bewilderment and sadness from losing our little guy to a virus was starting to lift. I was at the movies and when the lights came up I saw a text. My heart sunk as I read beyond the first line. My sister-in-law had some news and she had trouble deciding when to tell us. I knew even before I read on. She was pregnant. I didn’t really read the rest of the message. My heart instantly clenched, as did my whole body and the tears flowed. I couldn’t breathe. I started to shake and tried to tell my friends what was wrong. But I was having an out of body experience. I couldn’t talk.

My friends held my arm and walked me to my car. I would never have found my way back to the car park without them. I realised at the car they were probably concerned I would crash the car and we’d end up in a fiery ball of flames and front page news, so I forced myself to calm down. I asked my friend to talk about herself. It helped.

How did this news cause such a reaction from me? I was well used to hearing of pregnancies, and within the family. I think there were two things. The first is obvious, I had miscarried 10 days earlier. The grief was so raw and I hadn’t dealt with it properly (nor had time to do so) beyond tears, reflection and a building sense of anger.

The second is that I always believed we would get pregnant well before my sister-in-law. She hadn’t known her partner for long, about a year and a half, and I had expected that we would first at least get the warning shot of an engagement before a pregnancy announcement.

The shock was immense and it destroyed in seconds whatever tenuous structure I had built for myself to lean upon and get through this. It has forced open a wound that I am not sure how to sew back together. I feel a permanent pain in my chest, a squeezed heart. My head is fuzzy.

In hindsight though, I knew that children were a priority for her. I love my sister-in-law heaps and she deserves every happiness, but I will find it hard seeing her pregnant. It’s shit that these things just impose themselves on you and make you a person you don’t really want to be. The positive about feeling like you’re at a real low point is that surely the the only way is up!

 

 

Another miscarriage: surviving the plane crash

I miscarried last night. Our sixth loss in a row. As I looked at the blood in the toilet I wondered which little speck was our guy, and felt sorry for him having to end things in such an undignified way. I had cramps, but they weren’t too bad. I was glad that we had miscarried now, at 5w2d and not later into the pregnancy. I’m glad I didn’t need medical intervention, especially surgery after all the trouble I’ve had with my lining from my previous surgeries.

I can still barely believe what happened. After my son was diagnosed as having a virus, perhaps slap cheek, I was unwell for days. Dizzy, headachy, nauseated, fatigued. I put it down to early pregnancy hormones. But then, at 4w6d, I got a hot, red, itchy rash over almost my entire body. My worst nightmare had come true. I had a serious illness. I saw my doctor and she said that the embryo would have had, “no chance”. She said she’d have diagnosed me with German measles if I didn’t show good immunity to it from previous blood tests. Honestly, WTF. I haven’t had a virus like that since I was a kid.

I feel as though I have been in a plane crash and have realised that I have survived, but have no idea what to do next. I am a bit paralysed by what has transpired over the last couple of weeks. I think I will have to take some steps to seek out a counsellor, even though the last counsellor I spoke to was like a brick wall and left me feeling no better than before.

We have some big decisions to make. When we first began thinking about having our second child, I imagined and expected that we would have a two year age gap. I was so upset when that gap became two and a half years, then three years, but each time I gradually came around to it. When the gap was two years people asked my constantly about when and whether we would have a second child. Now they don’t say anything.

We are staring down the barrel of a gap of around four and a half to five years if we try again and succeed. I feel as though the gap is getting out of control. Perhaps I am being unfair to everyone who had a close relationship with their siblings growing up with a large age gap, but to me it is starting to feel pointless having two children with quite different childhoods. And putting ourselves through all the sleeplessness again when our lives feel so easy now.

But then I think about the rest of my son’s life. Once you’re in your twenties, that five year gap becomes smaller and smaller. It would eventually become insignificant – surely. Thinking about my son having a sibling for the rest of his life gives me the resolve to consider doing another round of IVF.

The alternative is quite scary. There must be so many couples out there that decide enough is enough, we have given it our best but our relationship and family and sanity must prevail over more attempts. We are so close to this point. I just don’t know if I have quite reached it yet. We wanted this so much, and when I saw that positive pregnancy test a week ago the age gap issue floated out of my thinking completely. I was just happy that we were pregnant.

Broken hearted

I knew as soon as I answered the phone. The nurse’s voice was solemn, she asked if it was OK to talk. I braced myself. “Your HcG has actually dropped since the last reading. It was 206 and now it’s 196. I’m so sorry.” When she didn’t explain that it was possible that things could still be OK I realised that I was having a miscarriage. Again. I’ve actually lost count what number we are up to. I started sobbing on the phone almost immediately. The nurse asked if I was OK. “Of course I’m not OK!” We agreed that I would do another blood test on Monday but it barely mattered. Embryo number six will not make it.

I text my husband even though he was at lunch. I figured he should know. And then I completely broke down. I lay on my bed and I cried so much. And I’m crying again now as I write this through my tears. My heart is broken again.

We’re pregnant! Well, maybe?

I took a pregnancy test on Friday. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I was hopeful. It was a First Response early result test, the only ones I use after all these years of trying. And there it was, two strong pink lines. Pregnant! I was not as excited as I thought I would be, more relieved. And happy.

Things changed quite quickly though. I took my son to the doctor as he had a strange rash on his face and legs. The doctor didn’t know for sure, but suspected that he had a virus commonly called slap cheek. She said “make sure he stays away from pregnant woman and anyone that’s not well.” I said, ‘but I’m pregnant! I just found out today!!” The doctor suggested I take my son to a grandparent, but we didn’t have anyone in the city. She said I probably already had the virus anyway if I was going to catch it, and there was nothing I could do. It was possible I could miscarry.

I was beyond distraught. What were the chances of this happening to us ever, let alone the day I find out that I’m pregnant. I was so upset. When my husband came home he thought the worst as he saw my teary face poke through the door. He suggested that I move out for the weekend. I didn’t want to call on my friends on a Friday night, but he was right. I did. I was in exile. We told my son that I was sick and needed to stay away from him.

When I looked into slap cheek further, I read that many people develop immunity to the virus from being exposed as a child. If you do catch it when pregnant though it can cause miscarriage as the virus attacks the red blood cells of the baby. It made me so worried.

The next day, my wonderful friends made me scrambled eggs for breakfast and took me to the zoo with their daughter. We had a lovely day, although after walking for a couple of hours I was pretty exhausted. In hindsight, I think that walk did something to my back, because the next day I woke in agonising pain. It radiated across my shoulders and down my arms. It radiated down my back and hips and legs. I was paranoid as hell that I had caught the virus. Why else would I be in such pain all over my body??! But almost as soon as the pain arrived, it was gone. The next morning I awoke basically pain free. Maybe I was OK. Maybe I didn’t have the virus!

Then the spotting started. FFS. Only the slightest, slightest bit of light brown spotting, not enough for anyone else to probably ever notice, but enough to freak me out completely. And I noticed it across three days. My first miscarriage began with spotting, albeit a bright red spot. The loss of the first of the twins began with spotting. I never had spotting with my other pregnancies. Fair to say then I have been a tad anxious.

The last couple of days I’ve felt fairly dizzy and queasy, and lacklustre. I’ve spent a lot of time sleeping. I’ll periodically poke my poor boobs to check that they still feel sore, and they seem to. I feel as though I should still be pregnant, but its anyone’s guess really. I’m expecting a phone call soon from the clinic to let me know if my HcG has risen as expected from my initial reading of 206 at 16DPO. It reminds me a little of the call I waited to receive from BEP (beedy eyed peepus), my obstetrician, to confirm whether or not our previous pregnancy had a trisomy. Every minute is taking a lifetime.

 

 

 

Back on the mouse-wheel of infertility

My colleague that sits next to me in the office is pregnant. Again. Unless something goes drastically wrong she will have two kids in the time we have been unable to have one. She’s so happy. I overhear her making  telephone appointments for scans, pregnancy yoga classes, “babymoon” holidays, and buying a bigger car. It really gets me down and that bothers me.

It was one of the reasons I’ve decided to take time away from work. I’m taking three months off. In part, this time is to repair some of the damage done to my mental state over the last two and half years. When our first embryo transfer failed, it hit me in a different way than I expected. It has been like a thick fog descended on me overnight and has barely lifted. My senses have been dulled and I don’t feel happiness like I usually do. I grump at my husband and cry way too much. It’s no good for anyone.

So I’m trying to take charge. I also want to do the best that I can for our second guy in the freezer, embryo number six. I was so anxious prior to and in the weeks following our first embryo transfer that I believe it may have affected implantation. It was unhealthy and unhelpful, and given the stakes are so high I feel a bit stupid in hindsight that I didn’t prioritise my health and sanity more by taking time off work then. Not that I can do anything about that now.

My boss was amazing actually. When I raised with him taking time off it was as if he had figured it out before I had. He said that he realised that the alternative to me taking leave was that I’d probably quit, which was true. This was more important than my job and he agreed. I don’t know how he convinced himself and management in barely 24 hours to approve my proposal, but here I am, on leave now for three months.

Fingers crossed that its productive in more ways than one.

IVF part 2: egg collection

I opted to work from home the morning of my egg collection. It proved a good distraction from egg collection, but a bad distraction from my ban on any food or drink before the procedure. I became pretty nervous in the half hour or so before I had to get in the car. I checked I had everything I needed, which was basically nothing, about five times.

My husband was there when I walked in the doors of the clinic. We sat on the couch and waited. I was too distracted to read any of the trashy magazines, or to even really talk.

We were called into our own small room. Two nurses came in. They asked all the usual questions, “are you allergic to anything?” “have you eaten anything today” “when did you last drink anything?” They explained the procedure in brief. An embryologist joined the conversation. My gynaecologist joined the conversation. It felt like there were thirty people in a room meant for one. My poor husband slunk back from providing his “sample” to a room of chaos.

I was walked into theatre. Almost immediately I noticed a tiny little window with the embryologist sitting on the other side of it. It looked like a little coffee bar, or a service kitchen. I almost expected to see a little moustached barista with an apron pop out with a smile and an espresso. I think what really was going to happen was that my gynaecologist would pass fluid containing eggs through the window so that they could examine the eggs immediately.

I sat down on the theatre bed and was promptly hooked up to various machines. An IV drip. A blood pressure monitor. Something in my nose with some gas passing through it, probably to zap any fears away. Then the nurses passed my gynaecologist drugs and even before I had my legs in the delightful stirrups I felt myself going fairly floppy.

The procedure itself was pretty painful. With 26 follicles my gynaecologist had to make a number of incisions directly into the ovaries. I cringed and let out a little squeak with each one. I tried to focus on my breathing. Soon enough they were finished, and I was out of theatre just like that, back in my little room.

I was given some toast, and I suspect about then the effect of the drugs really kicked in. I can’t remember what was on the toast, but I do remember that I offered some to my husband. The next thing that I remember was my gynaecologist advising me that they had managed to retrieve 24 eggs. “Wow!” I exclaimed. I was so stoked. My husband laughed and said, “you do realise that is about the sixth time they’ve told you that?” I had no recollection whatsoever.

I was discharged fairly quickly. We had a prescription for some codeine and we drove around the building to the pharmacy on the other side. I waited in the car while my husband went inside. Pretty quickly things went really downhill. I realised that I was going to either throw up or pass out, or both. I shifted uncomfortably around in the car, put the seat back, but to no avail. My mind told me that I had to escape the car and lie down on the cold concrete of the car park. So out I flopped. I began sweating and my head was spinning. I frantically told myself not to spew, to breathe, to focus on lying still.

I don’t know how much time had passed. I heard my husband say my name in shock. He later said he felt like he had an out of body experience seeing me lying with my head on the curb amongst some dead leaves and cigarette butts. I heard a lady say, “is she alright?” and my husband replied, “yeah, she’s ok, she’s just nauseous.” Poor guy.  I refused to move for a while, until I was able to get myself into the car and stay as still as possible on the reclined seat. Off we drove.

At home I rushed myself to bed and basically conked out for the rest of the afternoon. Occasionally I would get enough will and hunger to have some food and drink, but mostly I just slept. Neither of us had expected it would be such an ordeal, or that I would basically spend the next five days in and out of bed with nausea and a feeling like my insides were pumped full of concrete and squeezed. But we had done it. Now the wait to see if any of our guys would make it began.